Dark beginnings, Past scars Is it too late?
by Sakura33himE
Summary: The tale of goldilocks and the three bears. However everything is very very different. Goldi is a boy, for one, means MxM/Yaoi. Dont like dont read. Two: its very dark and has themes that may trigger some people. It will have happy chapters too though, full summary inside! (goldilocksxpapbear(Goldilocks Dior/PapaBear Balfour))
1. Chapter 1

**Hello my dears! Back again with another fanfic XD I need to finish my others first I know, buuut well I'm far from perfect. This fanfiction will have dark themes and cover some horrible facts of life, but it is first and foremost a story of fiction. The whole point is that two people who have gone through hell can heal each other and find love.**

 _ **Summary: Dior, named after the hair of golden yellow he was born with, was raised all his life by his loving mother. Though she showered him with affection their life was far from easy, as she worked in a brothel selling every piece of herself just to keep them somewhere safer than the streets. Until one day he is forced to leave due to some extenuating circumstances, he is found and left for dead in the snow.**_

 _ **On the brink of death, and bleeding out in a field of white, he is found by a shifter. A special race of humans that hide to stay alive. But this shifter, Balfour, has dark secrets of his own; and though he saves Dior's life and helps him gain strength, can the two of them save each other from their own demons? Or will the ever looming darkness consume them?**_

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 **Chapter One; Close to Death**

Pain echoed through every pore in Dior's body, even as the cold, bitter winter night started to numb his appendages, he could feel the endless throbbing pain. There was not a spot on him that didn't hurt. The blows that he'd been dealt were purple and swollen even though the snow was icing the wounds, his left eye was puffy and squeezed his eye lid shut, plus he could feel the split in his lip even after it stopped bleeding. But the ache's of his face were nothing to that of his body, with each breath pain pierced through his side so he was sure he had a broken rib – maybe two. That was the least of it, however, after the first few gut wrenching blows he'd lost count of how many times the goons had kicked him. He felt like they'd hit him with more than just their fists and feet, too.

And yet, that wasn't the worst of it.

After the goons had beaten him nearly an inch from death, when all he could do was silently beg for death while they wailed on him, they took it a step further and decided to have their way with his fightless body. Dior hadn't realized what was happening until it was too late, and then he hoped the cold ache would make him numb to what would happen. But the pain was much worse than he'd ever expected. All he could do was cry and beg them to stop.

Dior wasn't sure how long he'd laid there, beaten and bloody, nor was he sure exactly what part of his soul would not give up and let him die there. But, somehow, he found himself limping – horribly – through the dense snow. Where he was going he had no clue, just trying to get as far away from the place that haunted his dreams as he could. His clothes torn and barely covering his bruised and bloodied flesh, the cold biting away at his flesh – which had begun to turn blue at his fingers and toes. Yet he found himself still moving forward. It was as though he wasn't controlling his own body, that he was more watching himself trek through the snow up the hilly-mountain side, just waiting to see himself die.

Luck, Fate, or perhaps even Destiny would not let him die this night. In the cold, moonless night, just ahead of him in the distance he could barely see the glow of a lantern. Warmth, safety, lie just ahead. Maybe it was the thought of relief that did it, but his legs collapsed beneath him without a second thought. Falling to the snow he could barely let out the whimper of pain that vibrated through his body as he hit the ground. Fighting the darkness of unconsciousness as it began to close around him, he wondered if he would die out here in the snow just a couple of feet away from sanctuary.

Time stood still, or that's how it felt as thoughts slowly started to fade back in. His body still felt like it was suspended in a dark body of water, at first he couldn't feel anything, not even the fear of death. Dior just was, in that singular moment, he just was there floating in darkness thinking nothing. Until warmth started to flood into his empty void, filling it mind with colors of red, orange, and yellow as he thought of fire surrounding him, bringing him back to life. Or so it had felt. Though he still couldn't move Dior could tell he was alive, by the familiar pain that started to throb once again. Though it felt a little less, as though it was trying hard to distract him from the comfort that was trying to surround him. Warmth on his right side was closer than his left, and he felt like he was laying on a bed of feathers, but his eyes would not listen to him and open so he remained still.

Breathing slow and even, shallow as any deep breaths brought back the pain in his side, he faded back into blackness, but this time it felt easier – gentler even. As though the world of dreams welcomed him.

…

 _Dior was sitting in the same chair by the window that he spent so much of his childhood nights looking out onto the city. At night the connecting roofs with the lanterns glowing a perfect red would make the entirety look like scales on a dragon's back weaving left and right throughout the streets. And as a child he would wonder if things such as dragons could ever, or had ever, exist._ _As he turned his head to look around the room he grew up in, everything looked he same as he remembered it from so many years ago. Although he knew right away it was a dream, for there was no way he could be back here in this room with it this way, he didn't question it. He just took the minute he had in the place he loved, a place that belonged to the only person who had ever loved him._

 _In the next moment there she was, kneeling before him asking him what he was thinking. Dior was the spitting image of his mother, or so others had said before, but every time he would look at her he just saw the women who sacrificed everything to keep him safe. Even as a young child he knew she did unspeakable things for him, and he tried everything he could to be a good son for her._

 _Her golden locks were tied loosely to the side, and her bangs side swept trying to hide the black eye that was clear and dark against her pale skin. Her blue eyes, that were just a few shades lighter than Dior's, showed even more brightly against the darkening blue of the bruise. As a child he never understood why she would let men beat on her, even if she always claimed it was for him, why would they bother living here if she was being treated this way. But as an adult he understood all to well._

 _"Whats wrong, little DiDi?" His mother's soft voice called to him, echoing as if she was speaking through a wall of water. Why was it so hard to remember what she sounded like? Her hand came up to pat him on the head, but for some strange reason he could not feel the warmth of her touch._

 _Dior opened his mouth to speak, and though he could feel it moving he heard no words form from his lips. His heart started to race, why was this dream acting so strange? Hundreds of times he had dreams of his mother, but never like this._

 _Fear began to darken the room as the corners of the ceiling began to twist and close in on him. Dior tried to move, to tell his mother they needed to get out of here, but his child body wouldn't leave the chair._

 _Suddenly loud bangs echoed from the door, as the red wood – hand carved piece began to grow in size with each massive thud. Dior found it hard to catch his breath, as though something was wrapping tightly around his chest pressing in on him._

 _His mother was at the door as he turned to look, her small shoulders seeming smaller than he remembered, her voice a distant echo as she spoke to the dark figure behind the door. Glowing white eyes was all he could see, looking from above her head. Fear flooded in faster, as he could feel his breath quicken and hitch._

 _'_ _Dior.' His name echoed in the room so loud he thought his ears might bleed. 'Dior.' His eyes turned back to his mother, who was looking over her shoulder at him. Slowly she turned, as if standing on a rotating block but not actually moving herself. 'Dior' she called again, her voice changing with each call as though his mind couldn't find the right pitch to match the memory. Her arm slowly began to lift, a shaving knife in her hand, the dark figure behind her with glowing white eyes cupped her hand and helped her bring it to her neck. Dior felt like he couldn't breathe._

 _'Dior, why?' His mother asked as her hand slowly started to press the knife into her own neck. 'Why didn't you save me?' The dark, claw like hand, dragged his mothers hand- and the blade- across her pale skin as blood began to pour out._

 _It started as a drip from the slit, but then it began to flow in floods. Filling the room was a thick ocean of his mothers blood as he was swept up in the chair slowly moving up towards the ceiling. He could feel the warm wetness of her blood touch his skin as he fell into the red ocean around him screaming to his dead mother. Her body held perfectly in the arms of the dark creature who smirked at him, watching him drown with white glowing eyes glaring into his soul._

…

Dior woke with a jolt, his body jerking in the bed he was laid in trying to sit up but the pain and exhaustion he was fighting making it impossible for him to move. Waking mid scream, his attempted jolt had halted all sound within him so he was left laying still once again gasping for air. Eyes wide, he stared into the world around him, trying to pull his own consciousness from the nightmare of his mind and back to the real world. The feel of wet warmth still covered his body, making him forever remember the image of his mother's throat slit open and he could not shake the fear it gave him.

Suddenly there was a gentle rumble in his ears, a man's deep whisper of a voice, beside him. Hard to hear, but present. Dior's blue eyes, his right more than left as it was still swollen shut, slowly turned to look at the source. Through blurry vision it was hard to see at all, but he could barely make out the shape of a dark haired, square jawed stranger very close to his side. He knew he should fear the presence of someone he knew not, but he was too exhausted to fight back if an attack would be next, and too relieved that he would not die in the snow as somethings dinner. The voice came again, echoing into his ears, but his eye lids were already closing as he faded back into sleep.

This time a deep, nightmare-less, sleep.

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XD! **HI! so this was more like a teaser chapter than a full chapter. I have more on the way and the real chapters will be much longer. But I wanted to see if this was something worth posting at all. I know its kind of dark, but it wont stay like this for too long.**

 **Let me know if you want more! XP**


	2. Chapter 2

**Here is part two, the second half to what would be chapter one/ the continuation of the 'teaser' XD Enjoy!**

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 **Close to Death, Part two**

"Papa, is he going to be okay?" Sam asked his father, as he looked from the young man in his own bed up to his loving father.

"Not sure." Balfour answered honestly. Although he had done all he could – all he knew how to anyway – to patch up the injuries that littered the young man's body, he had never personally seen someone who was this close to death survive.

For the last hours of the night, and onward into the dawn, he had been watching over the feverish stranger fight death in his sleep. Still amazed that the young man had even made it this far into the mountain forest as wounded as he was, which was part of the reason he was doing all he could to save him. Frost had nearly taken his feat and almost had, but Balfour had boiled water and soaked cloths then wrapped them around the blue-ing feet of the young man. It was sure to be painful bringing back those almost dead parts of his feet and hands, but the young man seemed to be in so much pain everywhere it didn't seem like it added any more agony. He had also cleaned the young man's body as best he could without inflicting further damage to all the possible breaks on his body. Nearly his whole body was covered in blackened bruises, it truly seemed impossible that he was still alive.

Though he knew, for his son's sake, he should be worried about what a person could do to deserve a beating such as this and if he should be caring for this possible criminal at all; however, once he saw the tears streaming out of his pain closed eyes and heard the whimper call to the strangers mother, he knew. He knew there was no way this young stranger was some low life who deserved death.

Balfour turned to his young son, who was the embodiment of pure intentions. "Done all I can, now it'd be up to him if he wants to live." Sam nodded to his fathers words and tucked into his side as they both turned to watch yet another tear drip down the stranger's swollen cheek.

Balfour had been surprised – least to say – when his son had yelled for him out in the yard that night. He had been stoking the fire on what was a very cold night, and Sam had begged him to let him step outside to see the stars as he loved the clear view of the twinkling lights. Not but a moment later Balfour was rushing out at the sound of fear in his boy's voice, and what more to his surprise as soon as he got to Sam's side he smelled blood on the air. Quite a lot of it, too. It took only a minute to find the source, a young man collapsed in the snow, a trail of blood behind him.

At first Balfour had thought the poor stranger dead, but in the silence as they stared on for the smallest moment as he focused his hearing harder he heard the flutter of a dying heart. Urgency had gripped him then, grabbing up the stranger and rushing him back inside his home to tend to him. And that is what he did, the best that he could. A hard task, as he only had so much stored away for emergencies, and he had to use nearly all his remedies to help the stranger. Though something told him that this young man would pull through and it would be worth it then.

However, even after so many hours of watching the young man fight in his sleep, waking a few times with horror swirling in his eyes only to fall back into sleep a moment later, he was starting to doubt slightly. The blue shade in the strangers fingers and toes was starting to look clearer as blood was coming back to the appendages, but fever raked his whole body and he was covered in a cold sweat. Balfour was becoming quite worried the young man would not survive the next few days, especially if he couldn't get him to eat anything – which so far he had, had no luck.

Taking a moment, for it seemed as though the stranger was peacefully sleeping for the moment, he patted his son's head and stood. Sam fallowed at his heels. Walking back to the small kitchen which was part of the cottage that was not connected to the mountain; the small cottage, although fully functional and proper, it was only the front half of the home Balfour had built. The rest of his home was in a cave the cottage hide from the world, as a safety precaution Balfour had taken to protect his son from others that would do them harm.

The kitchen was small, equipped only with an iron stove, small sink, a couple cabinets, and a tiny table. Balfour stored most of their food in a small trap beneath the cottage he dug out himself to keep the food cold and safe – he had even walled it in by hand with stones from the stream. Earlier in the night – before dawn – he had grabbed a few vegetables and made a quick stew hoping he could wake the young man long enough to try to get him to eat something, but had no luck so far. For now he just wanted Sam to eat a bit.

"Go on and sit, Sam." Balfour gently instructed his son as he grabbed a wood carved bowl from the bit of wooden counter built spooning some of the stew with a wooden ladle into the bowl. It would be a simple meal for now, but latter he could go out and catch a few fish from up stream and make something heartier.

Putting the bowl in front of his son with a spoon on the table he turned and dished himself out a bowl and sat in his chair next to his son. As he watched Sam's small hand grab the spoon and begin feeding himself he couldn't help but smile. Sam would be six years this spring, but sometimes it was hard for him to not remember the small baby he held in his arms many years ago. Smiling once more he ruffled the dark tufts of hair on Sam's hair before eating a few bites himself.

It was a quite, quick meal, as Balfour had not gotten any sleep and Sam barely any. After they finished the stew he made Sam go lay down in his own bed, as the stranger was laying in Sam's bed, so his son could catch a few more hours of sleep as he waited for the young man to wake.

With a refreshed mind he looked down at the sweat covered, fevered young man in his son's bed. The strangers face was swollen and purple, and though his hair was matted with dried blood – he hadn't tried to wash the stranger's hair yet – it still was a bright yellow-gold. Balfour wondered, once again, why someone would beat him so. What could a kid, who probably was just barely a man, deserve to be left for dead as he was.

Balfour sat once again in the stool by the bed side. He was not a fan of humans, most of them, and he knew what foul creatures they could be to those such as himself. But something just felt entirely wrong for another human to be so cruel to their own. Sighing he could do nothing more than wipe the pooling sweat off the young man's face and wait.

It seemed he would wait hours more before any consciousness would be seen from the stranger. In truth, it was only a couple.

Balfour was sitting with his head bent into his hands, lack of sleep exhausting him while determination kept him slightly awake, when a small groan echoed in the silence of the cottage. Quickly he glanced up to watch the young man's face closely. His eyebrows were still furrowed as they had been for a while, but he could see beneath the lids of his eyes that his eyes were moving as he was coming into awareness. An attempt at a blink flashed darkened blue eyes once again, but he hadn't the strength to keep them open. Balfour had to gently put a hand on the young man's chest – trying to be wary of a possible broken rib – when the stranger tried to adjust and sit up.

"Stay still, you in no shape to be movin'. Don't think Death's given up on your soul just yet." Balfour spoke slow and quietly, keeping his tone calm and gentle, as any wounded person would surely be a bit skittish when awakening somewhere unfamiliar.

Blue eyes, one swelled a bit, looked up at it and Balfour saw only fear at first. It almost hurt his feelings, but then he saw confusion as the strangers brows furrowed more. The young man's mouth opened as if he wanted to speak but only a low groan escaped from dry lips. Balfour quickly reached to the left side of him where he had – many hours ago – gotten a fresh bucket of water from the well. Dipping a small cup into the clean water he brought it back to the stranger.

"Try to drink." Keeping his voice as before he brought the cup slowly to the other's lips, who only glared untrustingly at him, Balfour sighed. "Or don't. Your choice." He raised an eyebrow at the stranger as if challenging him to strain his body even more. The young man seemed to understand the facial cue and attempted to lift his head slightly but only winced in pain. Balfour scooped his hand behind the young man's head and help him hold still just long enough to get a sip of water.

"Definitely broken rib." Balfour confirmed setting the cup down. "You'll need to lay a while longer then, keep still." Balfour was trying not to sound commanding, but he knew if the young man tried to move it would only hurt him more. The stranger was only looking at him, as if assessing him with those dark blue eyes.

"Why?" Came a slow, pained rasp from the newly wet lips of the young man, it seemed the one word was all he could manage, but Balfour understood well enough.

"My home. Sam, my son found you in the snow nearly dead. Done what I can for now, but you need to keep still and rest. The fever could still kill you." Balfour sighed and put his hands on his knees. "But I'd venture to say you'll be fine, seein as you haven't died yet." He had tried to make the situation seem less grim with lighter words, but the young man seemed to only fall deeper into his own darkness.

He blinked once then gave a long stare – Balfour got the feeling he was trying to say thank you – before he closed his eyes once again falling into another deep sleep.

For the rest of the day the young man faded in and out of fever sleep, not saying much else other than asking for water now and again. Sam woke late in the afternoon and Balfour left the stranger behind the closed door for a couple hours as he took care of feeding his son. Making sure his boy had what he needed, keeping him indoors in case whoever did that to the young man was still prowling around the woods, before he went back into the closed off room to see how the stranger was doing.

The wounded young man wasn't responsive enough to eat anything until late into the night. Balfour had barely gotten an hour of rest before he heard the whimpered rasp of the young man. His sleep deranged mind wasn't sure at first if he had said anything or if it had just been a pained gasp, but when he saw those dark blue eyes watching him he forced himself to listen closer. Standing from the small chair he had been resting in, he walked back over to the wooden stool and leaned in.

"Water?" Balfour asked in confirmation as he raised an eyebrow and leaned to grab the water bucket, but the young man's head shook ever so slightly – just once. "Hungry?" Balfour felt almost relieved that the young man had an appetite, it meant he was slowly getting stronger.

The next hour was spent reheating the simple stew he had made, filling a bowl with mainly broth and spoon feeding the young man, whom he had to gingerly prop up on a pillow. When he had done so he realized there was too much dampness from all the cold fever sweat, but he'd deal with that after. First he feed him as much as the stranger could handle, slow bites one by one. Balfour was briefly reminded of how hard it was feeding Sam as a baby for the first few times, but this seemed harder as he had to make sure the young man wasn't going to barf it all up. With each swallow the young man groaned or winced, and Balfour wished he could do more. He was out of herbal medicine and only had a small pouch of tea leaves left. He wasn't much for such sweet drinks, but Sam enjoyed them during the summer months.

Balfour had a friend that lived further around the base of the mountain, and who normally supplied him with such things he could not get on his own, but he hadn't seen them for a while now. As he forced the young man to swallow another spoonful of broth he thought to himself that he should see about getting more herbs from his old friend.

"Need to change you." Balfour said plainly. With the sheets and pillows damp the young stranger would never get better. He only blinked his blue eyes slowly in response, and Balfour felt a wave of sympathy flow through him. To find himself exhausted after simply eating, the young man must still be in a lot of pain.

Balfour left the bowl on the floor as he stood and went to the wardrobe in his son's room. There is where he stored most of their blankets, sheets, and scrap cloths. Grabbing out a few sheets, a new blanket, and a clean cloth, he shut the wardrobe once again as it clicked back into place. Silently he sat back on the stool and looked into the blue eyes of the stranger.

"Sorry 'bout this." Was all he could think to say as he reached to pull back the blanket that had been covering the young man, and keeping him as warm as it could but now would surely feel like he was freezing. Leaving the soaked blanket on the floor he quickly began reaching underneath the young man and taking the sheet from beneath him, all while making sure not too move his sore body too much. This tedious task was done in silence on both their half's, as Balfour moved quickly to get a clean sheet underneath him then take the cloth and wipe the sweat from his face, neck and arms. Recovering him with a thicker blanket and sitting down once again. "That should feel better."

The young man simply nodded a slow response before his eyes closed again as he faded into sleep. Balfour sighed and waited a minute, watching his expression while sleep claimed him. After being sure he was sleeping fine he stood and picked up all the sweat soaked cloths balling them up in his hands as he silently left the room, closing the door behind him. His plan was to let him sleep for a little while, as he wished to catch a couple hours of sleep himself. It was still well into the night and dawn was a while away, so it was his perfect chance to rest his body and mind.

Making sure he was silent as he crept into his own room, knowing Sam was sleeping in his bed, he smiled to himself at the sight of his young son curled up in the center of his large bed. The sight of him curled so tightly in such a large mattress with a next of blankets, it reminded him once more of how small his son once was. Grabbing the edge of the blanket he slid onto the mattress keeping his movements as gentle and eased into the bed.

It was mere moments after he found a comfortable position to lay in before he closed his eyes and let sleep claim him.

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 **Chapter one, complete and done!**

 **Tell me what you think! review and favorite please!**

 **Thank you all!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello again! Hope everyone is well!**

 **Not many people seem interested in this story, and while that makes me a little sad I haven't had the motivation to write this much in what feels like forever. I really love creating these two characters and I have so much planned for them. So please stick around and I promise you wont regret it!**

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 **Chapter two; The Dawn Breaking**

 _Cold. Everything was cold, again. 'no..' the echo vibrated through the endless blackness around him. He didn't want to be lost in the cold yet again, but there he was. Dior looked down at his feet, they were bare and standing in a few inches of snow, but as he looked up and around him it was all just distant darkness. It was freezing, and it felt like the cold around him was constantly pushing in and becoming colder, his body began to shiver._

 _'Fuck..' His jaw shook as the hairs on his arms stood up, it was then Dior realized he was barely wearing anything. A simple tunic shirt, worn and holey, and a pair of patchy trousers. 'Where are my clothes?'_

 _Dior hugged himself and begged his legs to start moving so he could figure out where he was and why it was so dark and cold, he hugged his arms around himself but his legs stayed glued to the snow but shivering. He cursed to himself and whimpered, his body was starting to feel numb._

 _ **'Heh heh heh'**_

 _A deep, crackled, chuckle sounded echoing around him. Dior looked up and around himself into the darkness but saw nothing, his eyes darting left and right trying to find his watcher._

 _ **'**_ _ **Oh, poor poor Dior.'**_

 _Came the distorted voice again, sounding as though it was right behind him, but when Dior whipped around to look there was only darkness._

 _"_ _Whose there?!" Dior shouted through his chattering teeth, rubbing his arms with his numbing hands he felt fear fill his entire body. Where was he and why was everything so damn dark? He felt his heart beating loudly in his own ears._

 _ **'**_ _ **Don't remember me?'**_

 _The voice came again, barely a whisper, as the hot breath of whoever spoke brushed against the back of his neck. Dior whipped around again and again there was no one._

 _"_ _Show yourself!" Dior shouted, trying to control his fear, but he really only wanted to curl up and hide forever._

 _ **'**_ _ **Gladly'**_

 _Just as the voice came again, this time booming from all around him, figures – as if stepping out of the very shadows that surrounded him – came charging at him. Made completely out of shadows with bright, white eyes, they horrified Dior with their thin arms with long sharpened fingers out stretched towards him. Dior could only gasp, preparing to yell, but their hands and bodies covered him, burying him into the snow._

 _Dior thrashed and fought back the gripping force of their shadow made hands as they held down his arms, covered his mouth and ripped at his body. He felt helpless as he tried everything to get them off but only succeeded in tightening their grips. Finding it harder and harder to breath with their dark hands covering most of his face, he began to loose strength. The cold hard ground brought him closer into darkness, and as the world seemed to close in on him a figure hovered over his tied body._

 _Though the figure was just an outline, the dark shadow of someone he could not see, the very shape of it filled him with paralyzing fear. Eyes wide he could only stare onto it as it drew in closer and closer until it blocked out everything else from his sight._

 _ **'**_ _ **How I've missed you, little goldie'**_

…

Dior woke up mid scream, thrashing so hard he found himself rolling onto the ground, right out of the bed he had been laying in. The thick blanket he'd been laying in wrapped tightly around his legs now that he'd fallen onto the hard wood floor he grunted loudly as pain shot through his whole body. More pain pierced his chest as he gasped and groaned the broken rib causing him more pain, making it hard to catch more air.

His arm reached out looking for something to grasp onto so he could feel grounded to reality and not stuck in the horrible nightmares he kept having each time he fell asleep, but he was too wrapped up in the blanket to reach anything. Cursing in fear and frustration, then immediately regretted the breath it took to speak as he then began a fit of coughing, coughing that wrenched his body crippling him further where he was and sending pain throughout every muscle in his body.

Dior couldn't help the tears that now began sliding out his eyes, he'd never been brought that close to death, and though he was relieved he hadn't died he never thought this much pain would last after such a close encounter. Over the last – well he didn't even know how many hours – he'd been fading in an out, unsure what images were real and which were dream. But each time he awoke and knew he'd made it out of a horrid dream he tried so hard not to fall back into darkness, for he knew what was waiting there for him. Those white eyes were fallowing his nightmares and he was sure it wanted his very soul.

Dior stopped coughing when he could no longer pull air into his lungs from the sheer pain of the action. He could do nothing else but lay there holding himself trying to breath through the pain as tears fell from his eyes onto the wood.

A crack of light fell on his face and Dior took the chance to look up seeing at first only the bright shine through a crack of a door. When his vision cleared for a few moments he saw the shape of a young boy, no bigger than half the height of the door he was holding open, with brown tufts of hair on his head. Dior tried to call out but only gasped for air and whimpered as he began to feel the darkness creeping in once again. He tried to fight it, but the world around him felt cold while his body felt like it was radiating heat, and he couldn't help but feel weak.

He only meant to blink the tears from his vision, but as soon as he did he fell once more into a sickened sleep.

…

Balfour had left as soon as the sun rose. Of course he let his son know that he would only be gone a few hours, and that everything would be okay. He was off to get some herbal medicine from the witch in the woods, a good friend of his, but it was a treacherous path that could only be taken by foot which made it a long walk. And he wanted Sam to stay there to keep an eye on the young man, he's told his son to not go into the room but to just listen in case the stranger's condition got worse in his sleep.

It was a couple hours walk there, to Red's hut. Balfour knew Red's mate, Rolph , for many, many years now. It wasn't long before Rolph found his mate, and they settled in Red's grandmother's old cabin. Balfour had now known the two of them for a couple years, and throughout that time they'd always helped when Sam got sick or he needed things he couldn't get himself. They understood well that Balfour had to keep himself and Sam, most of all, hidden away from the human population. So he was hoping they might help him with what he'd need for this new stranger.

They did, indeed.

Balfour's visit with Red and Rolph was short, he explained using little detail what situation he was in and Red gave him what he thought would help. Then Balfour was on his way back to the cave cottage. By now he'd been gone most of the morning, and though he was a little nervous about having left his son there alone for so long, he knew Sam was old enough to stay out of any trouble. However, as he drew from the tree line into the small little clearing in from of the cottage he was troubled at the sight of his son standing right in front of the door.

"Pa!" Sam began to shout and waved his arms into the air.

Worried Sam was in danger, Balfour sprinted the rest of the distance and scooped his son into his arms.

"Are you hurt? Whats happened!" Balfour was already looking over Sam's body for a quick wound check, and though his boy appeared to be fine his concern did not falter.

"Not me, Pa, the man!" Sam was still using his loud worried tone as he pointed into the house, and even though it left a slight ringing in Balfour's sensitive ears he said nothing as he cautiously went back into the house.

"What happened Sam?" Balfour said in a low whisper, still cradling his son with on arm, as he glanced around thinking he might find the stranger had gone savage or some other vicious actions.

"He fell out of the bed, Pa-pa. He looks real hurt." Sam whispered back, trying to fallow his father's example, but at Sam's words Balfour sighed and calmed a little. No immediate danger for his beloved son. Putting his boy down he turned and made sure the front door to the cottage was shut tight and bolted, before turning back around and looking down at his boy.

"Stay here, stay inside." Balfour started making his way to the back of the cottage, where the cottage would meet mountain cave, but looked back at his son who was still standing in the spot he'd set him down at. "Love you, my boy." Balfour made sure to say before he went into his son's room where he'd left the stranger. Always feeling it was important to let his son know how much he treasured him.

He was immediately greeted with the sight of the young man, tangled up in sheets, on the floor fighting a fever sleep. Balfour barely shut the door behind him in the hurry to get to the young man's side. First he checked the temperature of the strangers forehead, feeling that it was still very warm to the touch and damp with sweat he sighed with worry. He'd left him hoping the few hours of cool rest would make the young man improve in condition, but now he was no better than he had been before. Second thing he did was to try to untangle the poor stranger from the twisted grip of the sheet while also quickly checking over the spots he had suspected of breakage the day before. He wanted to make sure the fall didn't make any broken bone puncture through flesh, and to his relief it had not.

"Hey." Balfour spoke low but clear, trying to see if he could rouse the young man from fevered sleep, but after a few attempts it was obviously futile. Sighing once more he positioned his feet underneath him to hold his weight as his arms scooped underneath the young man ready to lift him. With a smooth, gentle but swift motion he lifted the stranger from the floor and carefully laid him back in the bed, succeeding with only one groan from the young man.

Kneeling down he picked up the once tangled sheet and the thick blanket that had been thrown off the bed as well but still laid on the corner, taking these and straightening them back he once more covered the young man. Looking back down at the young man, his dirty blonde hair messy and flopped over his forehead, Balfour took his hand and gently pushed the dirty strands back from his face. Knowing he would need to get the young man in a bath, but also knowing that it would be hard to do with the stranger still fighting the fever as he was and with him still unconscious.

"What to do with you.." Balfour quietly said to himself as he left the room to go prep the items he'd gotten from Red.

Balfour found Sam kneeling before the fire, adding more wood and poking at the logs to set them right. At his heavy foot falls Sam looked up and smiled at his father.

"Is he going to be okay Papa?" Sam asked.

"Think so. He'd fallen out of bed, but looks like no harm done." Balfour patted his son on the head. It amazed him that the child he was raising could be such a sweet and innocent minded person, especially since Balfour had always been a bit of a cynic most his life – and maybe a bit bitter too.

Leaving his son to play with the wooden toys he had carved over the years by the fire he walked to the bag he'd dropped previously by the front door of the cottage. Inside were herbs, salves, and tea leaves that would help with healing the young man's injuries, along with a few more bandages and clean clothes. Red had told him if he needed anything else to just send word over and he'd prep the items ahead of time.

Balfour took them to the kitchen where he stored the other medicines he had, planning to make some of the medicinal tea so he could wake the young man and try to make him drink some. He needed to make sure the young man got well as soon as possible, for being this ill in winter usually lead to death. And while he would be a little upset about a stranger dying – though not too distraught as he knew him not – he didn't want Sam to witness death this closely.

Everything to protect his son.

Half an hour later he had tea, fresh bandages, herbal warm water, and had made Sam a small snack of bread and cheese before going back to the young man's side. Shutting the door behind him he placed all the things he'd brought by the side of the bed and took a seat on the stool as he brought it back to the position it had been in before.

Before he made an attempt to wake the stranger he took a moment to watch his face. The swollen black bruise over his left eye was getting a little better, as the swelling had gone down slightly and the black turned to blue, purple and red. Though it was still menacing and quite ugly. The split on his lip was scabbing well enough to keep from infection, and the slight split on his hair line seemed in the same condition as well. It seemed to Balfour that although he wasn't immediately showing improvement he wasn't worsening in his condition, which was good enough for now.

He reached out his arm and touched the young man's shoulder.

"Hey, stranger." Tapping lightly but firmly on his shoulder, trying not to shake him as the movement could hurt. "Wake up."

…

Dior's eyes opened slowly, painfully slow, with blinking adjusting his eyes to the brightness of the room in comparison to the darkness he'd been floating in only moments before. Once his eyes were aware enough to see the meet of the ceiling to the wall he felt confusion fill in his mind, then he remembered the blurry events over the last few times he'd been conscious. Another blink and he turned slowly to the feeling of a touch on his shoulder.

His eyes met the green eyes of a man who was both familiar and unfamiliar to him in the same moment, and for that moment they merely looked at each other. Then that moment was gone.

Dior's eyes opened wide with panic as all the events of his fogged mind started to piece together, panic was rising high inside him. Merely the fear of the unknown creeping in on him and his instincts telling him to run, were what was causing such a panic to rise within him. In the next instant he was trying to sit up to escape what felt like a trap to his panicked mind. The weirdly familiar-strange man's hand shot out to block his chest from moving. Dior heard his deep voice begin as though he was about to say something, but his panicked cry had already begun.

" _DON'T TOUCH ME!_ "

Dior's loud cry had his throat immediately dry and hurting, sending him into a fit of coughs that buckled him to his side as he turned to face the wall, his back pointed to the stranger. For a long moment there was only silence, as Dior coughed trying to find his breath again. Once he retrieved air back into his lungs he lay still, facing the wall. Fear and survival told him not to turn around, that if he did he would only regret it and find the dark figure that haunted his dreams; even now as he was awake he could hear the dark rasp whisper of the figure calling to him.

"My apologies. Did not mean to scare you." A man's voice spoke behind him, but it was not raspy. The smooth flow of gentle tones was new and yet Dior remembered it from the few times he was conscious previously; logic telling him that this stranger – who had saved his life obviously as he was not dead – meant him no harm, but fear he'd learned in life told him to stay still and so he did. But even with no response the voice came again, still calm and gentle.

"I only intended to help you drink some medicinal tea I brought. Should help that cough, if you be willin' to try."

Dior stayed perfectly still for a moment longer, as he fought his mind for a reason to keep staring at the wall, but his throat was parched and his lips so dry. Slowly, as the pain in his side was still sharp, he rolled back onto his back and carefully looked at the man's face again. Half of him expected to see the shadow figure with white eyes, but instead it was the blurry face he'd seen a couple times now while shifting through dreams.

In the blurred darkness of the room he still could not make much of his face, only his dark hair, strong features and green eyes; though it seemed now, that his vision was clearing a bit due to the fact that he could just barely open his left eye, that there was a bit of scruff on his chin as well.

Dior tried to lick his lips in preparation to speak but winced as his dry tongue passed over his cracked lips.

"Here." Came the man's voice again, as this time a small wooden cup was being brought to his lips. Dior was thankful that the stranger seemed to not even try to make physical contact again, as he really did not want to be touched but was now also unsure of how he was going to manage to drink laying flat on his back.

It took slow movements and slower sips but the man held the cup rather steady as he took a good few sips of the warm tea. Dior was actually surprised to find as soon as the liquid hit his tongue he started feeling less parched. The warm smooth flow of the herbs over his dry throat felt almost heavenly. He pulled back and relaxed a moment as he wet his lips with the remainder on his tongue, already his mouth felt a hundred times better than before. He then heard the soft clang of the cup being placed on the floor, and turned his eyes to look once more at the man who ad saved him.

"What's your name, kid." As the man spoke Dior watched his mouth move. It'd been so long since he'd seen someone's face not contorted by anger or crude intention, it almost seemed odd. His mind was still hazy so it took a second to realize that he'd been asked a question. Dior's blue eyes shifted up to look at the man once more, for a moment he questioned to himself if he should even give this stranger his real name. Would it matter? He thought to himself, even if this person were to try and take advantage or even kill him there was nothing he could even do about it anyway.

"Dior." He said softly, a sudden change from the shout he'd spouted earlier, and even though his throat was dry speaking still seemed to hurt. On that thought he got a flash of memory of his attacker choking the air out of him, he tried not to wince in fear and just closed his eyes for a moment to calm himself.

"Hmm." Was all the man replied with at first, and for a moment Dior thought they weren't going to speak any more but then the man spoke again. "Name's Balfour. Glade to see you improving." the man, Balfour's, tone stayed soft and calm, but Dior sensed sincerity in his words though he wasn't sure if he could trust it. All the people he'd ever known – excluding his mother – had never once had kind intentions towards him, so why should he trust that someone might now.

"How your hands and feet feel?" Balfour's voice came again, never wavering, but Dior thought the question odd. He moved his right hand into the air and wriggled his fingers, and at first he thought nothing was different but as he wriggled them a strange tingling sensation began.

"Little odd." Dior whispered, more to himself. It felt as though the movement was almost delayed, as though the sensations were echoing through his body. He didn't like that feeling.

"Frost bite, well almost." Balfour informed and then motioned to his feet with a jerk of his head. "And your toes?" Dior let his toes take a turn to wriggle under the thick blanket, and he tried to reason that the blanket was weighing them down more but he couldn't deny that they too felt odd.

Dior thought to himself that he shouldn't be surprised. After all that walking and treading through snow barefoot, he was bound to loose his feet had he not been saved. He looked back to his savior. Whether or not this man could be trusted he was sure he deserved thanks, not every day someone tries to save a half naked beaten stranger from death.

"I suppose I owe you my thanks.." Dior paused as speaking still felt rough on his vocal cords. "For saving my life." He'd never thanked anyone before for anything, so he wasn't sure how to properly do so.

"Already did." Balfour's lips turned slightly and Dior wondered if it was meant as a kind smile, but couldn't help but remember all the conniving smirks he'd been given. He wasn't sure if he'd ever trust anyone.

For a long, awkward, moment the two of them were silent. No words seemed to come to Dior and he could not leave the room either – as was his usual tactic for escaping a situation. The man didn't seem disturbed by his silence however, just seemed as though he was patiently waiting for Dior to be ready to talk. Not that he would right now anyway.

"More tea?" Balfour asked after another silent minute went by, picking up the cup once again. Dior only nodded, not feeling the need to speak, as the cup was once more brought to his lips. More slow sips were taken and he found he enjoyed the flavor. Soon after he'd finished the cup he found his eyes growing heavy. His head still felt fuzzy and he was most certainly still in throbbing pain – though the consistency of the throbbing was becoming almost a normal sensation – he could no longer fight sleep.

Once more he slipped into a silent slumber.

Dior was pleasantly pleased to find the next time he was opening his eyes that the world before him was not that of a nightmare waiting to haunt him, but the ceiling he'd been staring at when his eyes closed. Good rest with no dreams, it had been a while since he'd had that. He was also grateful for the fact that he appeared to be alone in the room for the moment. He assumed it would not be for long, so he took the moment he had and cherished the silence.

Lifting a hand he moved to feel the swollen eye that was still throbbing on the left side of his face, though the dull numb ache he was feeling there compared not to the rest of his body. Everything hurt, still. Although with comfort it was lessening, not by much however. ' _What can you expect when you're beaten to death, well almost.'_ Dior's inner voice spoke.

He could still feel the sharp sting in his back side, and the fact that he could still feel the pain very strongly told him that this oddly kind stranger had not known about _that_ injury. At first he wasn't sure if he should feel relieved, he didn't want to see that knowing look in another soul's eyes ever again. He'd been judged, pitied, hated, and used enough in the last couple years. He sure as hell didn't want to feel or see any of those shitty ass things from someone who had saved his life.

Dior still couldn't fathom why a stranger would save him. Other than his mother no one ever gave a shit about what happened to him, so why now? Past experience told him nothing was ever as innocent as it seems at first.

 _ **He wants you.**_

Dior's eyes widened as he heard a voice speaking to him, that same raspy deep voice from his dream. _God, please no._ Fear crept into every pour of his flesh as he desperately looked around the room in which he was still alone, not even the shadows had the shapes he'd seen so many times in his dreams.

 _ **He'll devour you.**_

It came loud and clear again but it sounded all around his body. Dior clamped his hands over his ears trying to drown out the sound as the voice in his head vibrated his whole body. He tried to curl and make himself smaller but everything hurt and he couldn't move.

"No.." Dior whimpered out. Why? Why did it have to fallow him everywhere? He must have lost his mind if he was now hearing his personal demon outside his dreams. "Go away.." Almost feeling like he could cry, he tried with all the energy left in him to hold it in.

 _ **But you're nothing, less than nothing. He'll take one bite and spit you out.**_

No matter how hard Dior pressed his hands over his ears he could still hear the demon rasps as though he was whispering from right over him.

"shut up.." He whispered and whimpered. All he wanted was to be alone.

 _ **No one will ever love you.**_

" _SHUT UP!_ " Dior shouted into the shadowed darkness of the ceiling.

"Whoa. Sorry, didn't know we were that loud.." A calmer, gentler deep voice spoke from the opened door way – the opening of which he had not heard because he was too busy covering his ears to imaginary demons.

Dior quickly darted his eyes to see the same concerned, but calm face he'd been seeing each time he awoke, although this time the man was accompanied by a small boy hiding behind his leg. He looked over the kid with a glance, brown bouncy tufts of curls on his head with a round face. The boy seemed unsure and perhaps a little scared, and Dior knew what it felt like to be a child and frightened. He'd hated it.

"I..uh.." He wasn't really sure what to say. ' _I was just shouting at a demon who haunts my dreams.',_ like that would go well. "s-sorry." Dior said nothing else as he turned back to staring at the ceiling. Slight embarrassment and soreness still in his throat made him not wish to speak anymore.

"Its fine." Balfour, or so he'd called himself, assured him as he stepped fulling into the room the boy still right behind him. Once again setting a tray of lightly clinking cups and bowls down beside the bed he took a seat with the boy by Dior's side. "Sam wanted to see how're doin'."

Dior turned to see Balfour smiling down at the kid. He felt like he remembered the round face staring at him, and though logic said it was because the kid lived here Dior remembered those brown eyes wide with horror. He didn't like that he couldn't remember why, or why the image was stuck in his head.

"Go on." Balfour urged the kid.

"You okay?" The kid said, his eyes never leaving Dior's.

For a short moment nothing else was said, as Dior was lost in thought looking at the boy. He could remember all the times as a kid how he wished for a father to love him, and all the times he was thankful to at least have his mother. But he couldn't remember any happy moments, just the relief and safety he felt being at her side. He wondered if this kid liked being with this rather odd – to Dior – man.

"Still alive." Dior replied. For some reason he couldn't bring himself to tell such a young kid that his body still hurt, that he could still feel heat radiating out his skin, and that he was terrified of falling back asleep. So he just blinked and looked towards the face of the man.

"He was worried." Balfour patted the kid's head and smiled down at him once again. "He's the one that found you." Balfour's green eyes looked to Dior and they locked for a moment until Dior blinked and looked elsewhere.

"You must be a god!" The kid's spoke with wonder, his voice ringing with happy curiosity.

The sudden statement shocked both Dior and Balfour. Dior scoffed as his eyes widened and he looked at the kid with confusion. Balfour looked down at the kid then chuckled and patted his back.

"W-Well! You survived all that, so you must be! Or blessed by one!" The kid seemed to be gaining confidence in his statement as he was speaking louder and no longer hiding in the man's shadow.

"Uh..well.." Dior tried to think of a way to dispute the statement, but he wasn't sure where to even start.

"Lets just be glad you seem to be gettin' better." Balfour said after a few more chuckles as he looked to Dior's confused face. "How 'bout you go play out there son?" He turned to the kid and the boy nodded before leaving, the door still slightly open.

"Sorry, he's got a wild imagination." Balfour leaned and grabbed a wooden cup, not unlike the one he'd had tea out of before. "Though he does have a point."

Dior sighed and waited as the cup was brought to his lips, took a few sips of what he found to be water, then relaxed his neck once more before speaking.

"It'd make more sense to be a curse." Dior stated simply not looking to the man as he spoke. He'd seen enough darkness in his life to know there was no way he was blessed by a god.

"Believe in curses?" Balfour asked and Dior had to turn to look at him this time. The man's face was the same as before, calm with no show of any other emotion. And although Dior could sense no dark intentions from him he still wasn't sure how much to trust.

"Don't you?" Dior couldn't keep himself from being a little cynical. After everything that had happened a few days ago could anyone blame him?

"No. I believe in people, and the horrible shit they do."

Dior could not argue with that. He only laid his head once more back against the pillow. They stayed like that for a while, just sitting in silence, every few minutes Balfour would offer him another sip of the cold water. He did try to eat some of the bread that had been brought but he couldn't stomach more than two bites before he felt queasy and stopped trying to eat.

After another few minutes of silence Dior couldn't take the awkwardness of the man just sitting waiting in silence, so he chose to speak.

"Just the two of you?"

The water had helped his throat feel better and his words came a bit smoother, but each time he spoke he could still feel the soreness that the damage of a strong hand had done to his vocal cords. He hoped it wouldn't last much longer.

"Yea." Balfour's reply was short. Once more, silence filled the room. "Where you from?"

There was a hint of uncertainty in the man's voice as he spoke, as if unsure if he should even ask personal questions. But Dior felt like he had nothing to loose by being honest, just maybe not about everything.

"Red city." Dior didn't want to give out that he lived at the back end, the red light district. Though the Red City was famous as it was, as a main center for a couple different trade routes and a lovely scenic area, it was not commonly known for what it truly was. A drug city, a city for all the scum to gather and scam naive people out of their money and anything else they'd sell. Dior's mother sold her self, and he was a product of that.

Balfour only nodded. "Long walk." He commented, sounding almost impressed but Dior had no clue as to why anyone would be. He honestly wasn't even sure how far he'd made it, or how he'd even pushed himself onward.

 _Maybe death would have been easier._

But here he was now, not dead, and in massive amounts of pain. Each breath, each sigh, made the aching pain in his side throb. Each time he moved his hands or feet he felt a tingling warmth. Each blink stretched swollen skin over his left eye, and each movement shot pain up his spine from his back side. His throat was sore from gripping hands, his back and stomach ached from punches and kicks that had been thrown at him, and his legs trembled even now from over excursion. Yes, he should definitely be dead, but he truly did not think it a blessing that he was not.

"Not even sure how far I got. Where is this?" Dior spoke quietly to minimize the pain.

"Hmm. Its about half a day's walk to Red City." Balfour gave him a calculating stare. "I'm guessin' you didn't walk that whole way though, you'd been dead long before you got close to the mountain."

"Not far enough," Dior mumbled to himself before he spoke up. "I was walking the forest path when they jumped me.." Though his words weren't much louder than his mumble. Cold chills started to creep up his body as flashes of the attack flew into his mind for the thousandth time. He didn't want to mention that he'd hitched a ride in the back of a cart for a few miles, or that he'd only managed that after hours of sneaking through the city streets to evade their detection. Nor did he want to talk about the utter, gripping fear that stopped his breathing when he saw _him_ step out from behind a tree just ahead of him on the trail.

 _How?_ How had they found him after all he went through to stay hidden, after thinking he'd finally been free? Had they waited? Were they hoping he thought he'd tasted freedom before they snatched his life away? And why?

Dior shivered as he remembered everything, every small detail, feeling tears well up in his eyes though he refused to let them fall. He blinked hard and turned his head, hoping the man hadn't noticed.

"Sure are lucky we found you then." Balfour continued in the same gentle tone he'd been using, and after this long Dior was starting to find something comforting about it. "Any longer and I think you would have been dead, lying in the snow like that." Then, another moment of dead silence.

The sound of Balfour standing echoed in Dior's hyper sensitive ears as anxiety and fear always made him stand on edge.

"Well, get some more sleep. I'll come back later."

Dior could hear him turn and walk to the door. Part of him wanted to reach out and beg the man not to leave him alone. To tell him that he desperately did not want to fall asleep, that his nightmares would surely finish the job those men could not. But his body wouln't move. He couldn't tare his eyes away from the wood of the wall the bed leaned against, so the next sound he hear was the shutting of the door.

Dior was left with only his fears to put him to sleep.

* * *

 **Chapter 2 Dawn Breaking End**

 **So there was mention of another couple (red ridding hood) while it was brief it was important. They'll appear again, and sooner or later they'll get their own story. I want to do a whole universe of these fairy tales ^.^**

 **p.s.**

 **Please please please! review! It helps me write faster, and better, knowing people like what I share. Else I tend to lose confidence and then drop the story T^T and I don't want to abandon these two! So please Review!**


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